


Beauty is in the Details

by thenerdnextdoor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Attempt at Humor, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is a Softie, Derek Hale is the art, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing, Stiles Stilinski learns to appreciate art, This got away from me, and it turned into 7k, it was supposed to be a paragraph, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdnextdoor/pseuds/thenerdnextdoor
Summary: Stiles loves that art can be a way for people to express themselves, their most private selves, to the people around them and beunderstood. He really, honestly, thinks it's an amazing thing, quiet in its beauty. He also loves that it's completely subjective./"Is it possible to objectify a piece of art?"The quirked eyebrow quickly drops and Stiles hears the hiss of a nose-sigh."Does that sound like something a drunk person would ask? It does, doesn't it? It shouldn't, though. It's a perfectly valid question. And someone sober came up with it," Stiles says. "It was me. I came up with it. The sober someone is me. I'm sober."
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 22
Kudos: 161





	Beauty is in the Details

**Author's Note:**

> this was seriously not supposed to end up at 7k words, but here we are. I started writing and couldn't stop. hopefully someone enjoys it!

Stiles has never really been much of an _art_ -lover, so to speak. I mean, yeah, sure, he loves the _concept_ of it, the motivations behind it and the enjoyment that people take from it; he loves that people can be so _creative_ , and other people can be so _moved_ by that creativity. He loves the communication of something so intimate and inaccessible into something tangible, sometimes completely unrelated and poetically implicit, and the way that someone else can look at it and _see_ all the hidden words and feelings anyway. He loves that it can be a way for people to express themselves, their most private selves, to the people around them and be _understood_. He really, honestly, thinks it's an amazing thing, quiet in its beauty.

He also loves that it's completely subjective. Art can be the standard, traditional medium of canvases or paper brushed or pencilled with colours or monotone ink. It can be carved into wood, welded onto metal, sprayed onto brick. It can also be written or typed onto pages, left to run on and on and on, or split at strange but poignant points into choppy lines that flow like music. It can be music itself, sung or spoken or shouted, accompanied by harps or electric guitars or bagpipes. It can be the movement of a person's body, the way someone carries themselves, the kindness a person exudes without bias. It can be solitary or part of a collective. It can be a skill, whether used for good or bad, wielded as easy as a heartbeat or as strenuous as working a lifetime to achieve it. It can be messy and unfamiliar and daunting, and it can be elegant and instinctual and comforting.

If he was to pick a medium of art that he loves most, it'd probably be movies, or TV, or video games. Music would come close, too. Maybe the way his dad works so diligently to solve a case, or the soft warmth in his smile when they get to enjoy his night off together. It could also be the way Scott plays lacrosse, now that he's actually _good_ , or the exasperated efficiency Melissa handles them with whenever they show up to the hospital with an injury. Now that he thinks about it, every time Roscoe starts up without the hint of a splutter or shudder could definitely be in contention for one of the top spots. Maybe even the rasp of rage in Coach's voice whenever he unleashes a torrent of nonsensical yet _devastating_ insults upon Greenburg. _Oh_ , maybe it could be the look on Jackson's face that one time Lydia broke up with him _very loudly_ in the middle of the cafeteria and her hair had slapped across his face when she'd swished around to storm off.

Is Stiles more of an art-lover than he thought he was? _Beauty is in the details_ , and all that. He'd never really stopped to appreciate all those moments that he'd been enjoying - the thought to do so had never really occurred to him, until now. Now, he wants to go to his jeep and twist the key in the ignition, eyes closed and ears honed in on the rusted rumble of life, and he wants to murmur to his beloved Roscoe that _you're art, you know that_? He wants to sit and watch Scott tear up the field with his stick rocking back and forth in his hands, and laugh with him when he celebrates after the game and say _you've come so far, man_. He wants to hug his dad and say _you did a great job; let's go bowling and we'll order fat, greasy, artery-clogging burgers just this once_. He wants to take Melissa's hand in his when she's pulling away after securing a bandage and smile and _thank her_. He wants to not flinch when Coach demands irritably what he's laughing at and instead say _you're a poet, Coach_. He wants to have Lydia make Jackson pull _that face_ again so he can take a picture and admire it forever.

Stiles isn't an art-lover, but he loves the way it can sneak up on you and launch you into some humble, introspective, internal monologue that inspires some life-altering realisations and resolutions to _appreciate_ more. He loves the way it can be anything that simply _resonates_ with you, on any level - anything that makes you _pause_ and just- _oh_. He's pretty sure that the majority of people would tell you that art is anything _you_ recognise as art, on a personal level - they might not share the same classification, but they wouldn't deny it on your behalf. There will be snuffy, stuffy, antiquated people, for sure, that would be offended by the list he has realised in the last however-many-seconds as _his_ perception of art; but any argument they could concoct to dissuade him would absolutely _not_ have the strength to stand up against his latest discovery.

Because Stiles has discovered a new medium of art to add to his very sudden and fresh list. If someone had broached the concept a mere ten minutes ago, Stiles would have scoffed and dismissed them easily. But he's a changed man now - art can do that to you, he'll have you know. He's had a moment of clarity, of enlightenment, and there's no going back. A new standard has been set, a bar secured above what he hadn't realised was already there, and he's pretty confident that nothing will ever surpass this.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Stiles has never been a particularly religious or spiritual person, but there's just something so _ethereal_ about this new kind of art.

"You ever just have a moment where it feels like the stars align and the planets are all, like, rotating the right way and the sky is blue and the sun is warm and the breeze is fresh and-"

"Are you having a stroke?"

"Scotty," Stiles says, his mouth curved in a wry, wisened smile. He lifts a hand and secures his fingers around Scott's shoulder, giving him a gentle shoogle. "I'm having a _moment_."

"Alright, who spiked the designated driver?" Malia asks flatly. "I just wanna talk."

"Cupid, maybe? Or someone a little more cultured, more intellectual."

"Stiles, seriously, what is going on?" Scott questions, his jaw especially crooked and endearing in his confusion.

"I think he's found something," Lydia observes dryly.

"Insanity?" Malia queries.

"Absolution," Stiles breathes, still squeezing Scott's shoulder and gently rocking it.

"If he hadn't been so _lazy_ , he would've found it earlier."

"I'm already the designated driver, Lyds, I'm not gonna be your waiter, too."

"Why does it always feel like you two are operating on a whole other level of existence than the rest of us?" Kira complains, head tilting backwards a little, eyebrows scrunched helplessly.

"Guys," Lydia sighs, gesturing a hand across the bar. "Literally _all_ you have to do is look where he's staring."

"Seems like a pretty weird reaction to a couple playing tonsil-tennis," Malia intones, judgement contorting her features.

" _Past_ them," Lydia clarifies, unimpressed.

"Don't you see?" Stiles breathes, his chest filling with warmth as he beholds the art.

"Dude, you're making me uncomfortable," Scott mutters, prying Stiles' fingers away from the curve of his shoulder.

"Oh, okay," Kira says lightly, having craned her neck to follow Lydia's directions, and turns back to the booth now with a happy expression.

"I think you'd have better luck with the tennis players," Malia shrugs, returning to her beer.

"Wait, are we looking at the guy clearing tables?" Scott checks.

Stiles scoffs quietly - typical Scott, living on the surface and not _appreciating_ the layers to every tiny moment. _Clearing tables_ , as if it's that simple.

"Stiles could totally get with him, what are you talking about? He'd be _lucky_ to have Stiles," Scott tells Malia, bumping his elbow into Stiles' supportively.

Scratch what Stiles just thought - Scott is an angel and a hero, and he appreciates things _just fine_.

"D'you think he likes art?" Stiles asks, glancing at Lydia because she is yet to throw in her opinion on the matter, and she's the most cultured of them all so she'll know best - apart from Stiles, obviously, since his recent awakening.

"I think _he'll_ be able to answer your question better than any of us can," Lydia replies, lifting her cocktail glass to her ruby lips. Stiles spares her another glance, watching as she swallows her sip, licks her lips, and flattens them until they dimple her cheeks as she gives him an irritable look.

Well, it's not a _discouragement_.

The man across the bar, the discovery Stiles made not two minutes earlier, really is a walking piece of art. Leather boots, black and laced; slim jeans, black and distressed; an olive shirt, short-sleeved and hanging off a muscular frame. His hair is jet-black, just long enough to need brushed out of his face and just _begging_ to have fingers run through it. His eyebrows, thick and as dark as his hair, are lightly pinched in concentration as he works. His sideburns merge into a dark beard that cuts neatly under high cheekbones and frames a mouth that seems to have a natural downwards pull. Stiles can't make out the colour of his eyes from this distance, but they don't look like a standard brown - they could be green, but he needs a closer look to be sure.

The artwork is bent over a table closer to the bar, a wet cloth in his right hand that he's wiping back and forth across the wood. His left hand is braced on the back of a chair, supporting his torso as he stretches over to reach the far edge of the table, and Stiles has barely been able to divert his gaze since the artwork began the process of clearing and cleaning the table. It's just… his _biceps_ \- Stiles has never seen anything like them before. Sure, Scotty's gained some impressive muscle in the last few years; but this guy is _built_. The olive shirt rests upon broad, _broad_ , shoulders, and the sleeves are ever-so-slightly restraining the movement of his flexing biceps as his torso lowers closer to the table and he leans more heavily on his arm. His skin is tanned and smooth, his forearms decorated with a layer of dark hair, his hands strong and capable, and Stiles just _knows_ there's no coming back from this.

His dad once told him about moments that will change a life forever, and Stiles _knows_ with the confidence and certainty possessed by middle-aged, straight, white men, that he has stumbled across one of those moments.

"Bar staff don't actually like it when people try to talk to them at work, right?" he asks, eyes narrowed as his cheek twitches in a small wince.

"Only if the people trying to talk to them are assholes or weird," Scott counters.

"Which.." Stiles prompts, head tilting towards his best friend.

"Which you are _not_ ," Scott rushes to clarify.

Stiles nods and straightens up again, rolling his shoulders back. "So, uh, do I just go up? Looking like this?"

"Lose the shirt," Malia advises bluntly.

"What? No!" Kira protests quickly, leaning over the table and extending a hand towards Stiles. "You should never be anything but yourself. Anyone who doesn't appreciate you for you isn't worth your time."

Scott smiles happily. "Yeah, definitely."

Stiles rolls his eyes at them and turns to Lydia, eyebrows lifting expectantly. Lydia's head tilts as she considers his outfit. He can feel the analysing heat of her investigative eyes trail over his chequered shirt, the white tee underneath, the ripped, denim jeans, and the red converse on his feet. He waits patiently, knowing she'll give him the honest _and_ accurate analysis, and plasters a goofy smile on his face when her gaze lifts up again. But then it rises to his hair, which he'd not had time to run gel through before their impromptu outing, leaving it fluffy and loose and tickling his forehead.

"Alright, I can't exactly do anything about the genetic parts, Lydia. We're only considering what I can actually _change_ right now - i.e. the outfit."

"I actually think your hair looks great like this," she retorts, eyebrows quirking smugly. "Your gelled style looks like you're clinging to your high school era."

"Yeah, the gel's dumb," Malia agrees. "This is much better."

Stiles feels betrayed. _Very_ betrayed.

"I think you look great either way, bro," Scott grins.

Stiles feels validated.

"Don't ever change, Scotty," he sighs, patting his best friend's chest gratefully. "What's the verdict on the _clothes_ , Lyds?"

"Depends on what you're hoping the outcome of this interaction is going to be. If you want a one-off soirée, then ditch the shirt. If you want a genuine connection that could lead to dating, then I concur with Kira's suggestion."

Stiles sucks in a deep breath, turning his attention back to the artwork. He has moved onto another table, clearing up the empty and abandoned glasses onto a plastic tray.

"I mean, if I have even a microscopic chance at getting anywhere with someone like that, I should try to lock it down, right? It'd be dumb to just walk away afterwards."

"Oh, yeah. You're not gonna do any better than that," Malia agrees.

"You'd be a cute couple," Kira gushes, grinning. "I bet he's super sweet."

"You could definitely at least get the night," Lydia muses. "But there's no harm in trying to go for gold."

"Whatever makes you happy, man," Scott throws in.

Stiles' lips pucker and he nods continuously for a moment, working up some confidence in his gut as he looks around at the supportive expressions of his friends. "Cool. Yup. Solid. Awesome. Gonna do it. Gonna go up and admire the artwork. Gonna just walk up and say some words. They'll make sense. Straight outta the dictionary. As long as he speaks English, can't go wrong, right?"

"That's the spirit," Lydia nods, lips pursing again in a flat smile that doesn't _really_ inspire a lot of confidence.

But Stiles drums out a quick, nervous beat on the table, bearing his teeth in an attempt at a grin, and he shoves himself up off the bench. His open shirt is adjusted and fluttered by fidgety fingers as he slips out from the booth, and he runs a hand through his hair to ruffle it a little as he starts to walk across the bar towards the artwork.

The man has just returned to the table after depositing the tray of empty glasses on the bar, and he's got that rag again in his right hand while his left braces on the edge of the table. And, _man_ , is admiring a piece of art always this hard? Because Stiles doesn't know where to focus his attention - the biceps, the way the shirt is hanging off his torso, the hair, the eyebrows, the beard, the mouth, the _boots_ , the eyes still hidden by the angle of his face?

And then Stiles is next to the man, hovering behind a chair, eyes flittering across the entirety of the artwork nervously, distractedly.

Is it standard artwork-admiring protocol to have the artwork twist a questioning eyebrow at you, run a hazel - _fucking hazel, are you kidding, how is Stiles supposed to handle that?_ \- gaze across your body without any indication of an impression, and then turn back to what they were doing before they noticed your presence?

Stiles blinks, his eyes now fixed on the guy's temple. His thick eyebrow is still lifted in a manner that Stiles is reluctant, but obligated, to read as _unimpressed_ , and his jaw looks clenched, the bone pressing into the skin of his cheek. Stiles grimaces quickly to himself, shuffling on his feet nervously.

_Say something!_ his brain oh-so-helpfully supplies.

"Is it possible to objectify a piece of art?"

The quirked eyebrow quickly drops and Stiles hears the hiss of a nose-sigh.

"Does that sound like something a drunk person would ask? It does, doesn't it? It shouldn't, though. It's a perfectly valid question. And someone sober came up with it," Stiles says. "It was me. I came up with it. The sober someone is me. I'm sober."

The eyebrows are furrowed this time when the hazel eyes seek his out, but there's a twitch under the eyes that looks wary and questioning.

Stiles grins uneasily. "That didn't sound convincing. It's true though. I'm the designated driver."

The eyebrow quirks out of the furrow again and the face turns back to the table. The cloth is swept along the far edge and twisted to run back down again.

"Yeah, I know it's not exactly riveting information, but I figured you should know since you probably get drunk people hitting on you all the time."

The hand falters for a millisecond, recovering so quickly that Stiles almost misses it happening altogether.

"I mean, not that this is what's happening. I'm not hitting on you. I mean, I guess I kinda am. Not the way that a drunk person would, though. Or your average sober person. Where does the phrase ' _hitting on you_ ' even come from? It's such a weird turn of phrase. It definitely doesn't accurately describe what's happening right now."

The artwork inhales deeply, chest expanding against the olive shirt, and the jaw presses again at the cheek. The cloth makes its way to the middle of the table.

"Alright, so it's not a great first impression, okay? I get it. Usually you don't have to actually _make an impression_ on artwork, though, dude. Usually the artwork doesn't even know you're admiring it. I don't know, I'm not a connoisseur; I'm just a humble amateur completely out of his depth and scrambling like a newborn deer to figure out how this usually works."

The face tilts towards him again, scrunched and twisted with uneasy bewilderment.

Stiles' hands flick out at his sides exasperatedly, before planting themselves on his hips. He curves his bottom lip in over his teeth and runs his tongue along it, searching for a way to rectify this situation. At this stage, he'll be lucky he doesn't get kicked out of the bar, never mind making it to even a one-time entanglement.

"Alright, gotta salvage this," he mutters to himself. "Can't go around making people think I'm a human disaster."

At that, he hears an almost-inaudible huff of amusement.

"Uh, _excuse me_ ," Stiles scowls, leaning in a little - he's made sure not to actually encroach on the artwork's personal space, though. "I am _not_ a human disaster. I'm actually very well put together, most of the time. Yeah. I got a lotta good shit goin' on, okay? I'm goin' places. And those places would _not_ accept a human disaster."

The artwork finishes wiping down the table and drops the wet cloth to the wooden surface with a small _splat_. Then he turns and stands up to his full height - which isn't _that_ much taller than Stiles, shut up - and, _good lord_ , he crosses his arms across his chest.

For a moment, Stiles' brain is just a frantic chanting of _arms, arms, arms, arms, arms, arms_ -

The artwork quirks both eyebrows and tilts his head.

Stiles lets go of his lips, having sucked them into his mouth to stop himself from blurting something truly idiotic, and narrows his eyes. "Right. The point. The point of this whole.. _thing._ I came over here for a reason. Gotta have a reason for everything, right? That's what _not_ -human-disasters do. That's what _I_ do. Every day. Daily grind. Grindin' out reasons left, right, and centre. You couldn't handle all this reason."

The artwork rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms, snatches up the cloth, and twists on the balls of his feet. Then he starts to walk away.

And, well, Stiles is an art-lover now. So, he goes where the art is.

He braces a hand against the edge of the bar, the other coming up to rub the back of his head. He watches the artwork carefully as he wanders down the length of the bar and collects the tray of empty glasses, delivering them through an open doorway into the back. When he returns, the man glances at Stiles with a blank expression and starts to wipe down the surface of the bar on Stiles' right.

"Listen, I'm a tenacious person, okay? And I _am_ gonna salvage this situation. I don't care if it takes all night."

The artwork blinks sluggishly and his head dips a little lower.

"I get that _you_ might. But when I salvage this shit, you're gonna regret ever doubting me. I promise you that. A _Stilinski_ promise."

The artwork pauses to give him a wary glance.

Stiles' eyebrows lift with interest. "Oh, so you know the name, huh? Don't let it intimidate you."

The artwork tilts his head in a smooth motion.

Stiles pouts. " _I_ can still be intimidating. I'm made up of half his genes, you know? I've got _some_ of his intimidation points at least."

There's a quirked eyebrow sent his way.

"Well, I'm not gonna show _you_ , am I? That'd be completely counterproductive. I'm not here to _intimidate_ you. I'm here to admire you. Or woo you. Or something. I dunno yet."

Another flat glance.

" _Alright_ , so I'm not off to a good start, whatever. It's not like you've given me anything to work with, here. I know I'm doing okay- actually, what the hell, I'm doing a _great_ job maintaining this conversation when all you're giving me is eyebrows and glares! That's talent for you, dude. You really gonna turn away someone so talented?"

Turns out the artwork's face can be a _lot_ harder than what Stiles has been privy to - because his hazel eyes lock onto something over Stiles' shoulder and the lines of his mouth and forehead go _rigid_. Stiles blinks, confused, but doesn't even have the time to turn his head before there's a loud _smack_ and he flinches, skittering a couple steps to his left and pressing against the edge of the bar to escape the sudden, stinging pain on his ass.

A man stumbles into the bar at his side, grinning like a troll. His eyes are half-lidded in that _I'm way more drunk than I ought to be_ sort of way, and the stench of alcohol is seeping out of his pores in nauseating waves. "What kinda talents we talkin', pretty boy?" he slurs.

And Stiles can do nothing but _gape_ at him. He would say that he's flattered, since he's never been so blatantly and enthusiastically _propositioned_ before, but the man is over twice his age, sweating profusely, and looks like a police sketch dictated by the witness of some heinous crime. And, to make matters worse, the man lifts his hand to reach out for Stiles _again_ , as if he can't see how utterly horrified Stiles already is.

But his sausage-fingers don't make it to Stiles' body. There's a muscled, tanned, _gorgeous_ forearm between Stiles and the man, and there are _very strong_ fingers wrapped around the man's wrist, gripping hard enough to elicit a pained grunt from the man's swollen throat.

Stiles and the man both follow the line of the muscled forearm, over the elbow, the - _bulging_ , jesus christ - bicep, broad shoulder, thick neck, and up to the dangerously-cold expression on the artwork's face. Stiles' knees nearly give out.

"Get out," the artwork mutters. His voice is quiet, calmly enraged, and not as deep as Stiles expected. It's as beautiful as the rest of him.

Before the man can argue, the artwork elaborates. "You're gonna harass and assault my customers? You can get the hell out, and don't come back. It's not a discussion - get out or I'm calling the cops."

_Man_ , Stiles knew that art had _layers_ , but this is something else entirely. He was _not_ prepared for this. He might be completely out of his depth, here.

The man makes a range of noises as grotesque as his face, rips his wrist from the artwork's grip, his skin reddening with anger and humiliation. But he snatches his jacket off the back of a chair as he passes his abandoned table, and he totters out of the bar.

Stiles stares at the door for a moment, questioning whether he has the courage or even the _worthiness_ to turn back to face the artwork. But, in the end, selfishness and greed wins out. His saviour has gone back to scrubbing the bartop, methodically wiping up and down and side to side with the wet cloth. His jaw is clenched again, and his eyebrows are furrowed, and his head is bowed, and Stiles falters - maybe the guy had just been displaying _his_ version of polite this whole time? Stiles had assumed that he was the kind of guy that could and _would_ simply scare someone away if he was that uninterested in the interaction, which meant that the guy was, on some level, _allowing_ Stiles' conversation. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe the guy is actually more socially adept than he assumed, and was only holding himself back from scaring Stiles away out of politeness, when it's really all he wanted to do.

Stiles wonders if his inner turmoil is plain to see on his face, his mouth bobbing open and closed like a freaking _fish_ while he gestures silently and vaguely between the two of them and the now-empty doorway. His brain is trying desperately to come up with _something_ , cycling through witty, sarcastic, teasing, mocking, genuine, grateful, vulnerable, angry, apologetic, embarrassed - and he's coming up _shamefully_ blank. He's supposed to be the talker, and he has _nothing_.

Then there's a glance. Quick, sharp, stilted. Guarded, hazel eyes flicking up under thick, angry eyebrows. Stiles freezes, his mouth hanging open, eyebrows lifted into his hairline, one hand cradling the other, torso bent forward awkwardly. His brain is surging towards something sarcastic and snarky, something to poke at how the artwork came to his defense even though he's been completely unforthcoming throughout the last five, ten minutes.

But then his eyes fall to the hunched shoulders, straining rigidly against the olive shirt, and the free hand that's balled in a fist at the other edge of the bar, white-knuckled and subtly shaking from the force of the clench. He looks again at the clenched jaw, at the way it looks like it's pulsing against the skin, like the man is repeatedly biting down harder on his teeth. And he remembers the guarded darkness in the hazel gaze - one that Stiles _knows_ hadn't been there throughout their conversation. He's pretty sure now that it was _their_ conversation, rather than just _his_.

There probably aren't that many reasons why someone would behave like this after stopping a harassment - an _assault_ , as he had put it. He's not embarrassed about looking out for Stiles after being so aloof and disinterested, because Stiles just doesn't think this man is _that_ kind of person. He stepped in because it was the decent thing to do and he's not going to regret that. This is something else. It's like he's waiting for something, something he _doesn't want_ \- a comment that would maybe hit too close to home, or a question he doesn't want to answer.

Stiles slowly closes his mouth, reaching tentatively for the stool on his left and awkwardly contorting his body to push up onto it. The man doesn't look at him, but his head is angled so that Stiles will be in his peripherals. He's got the build and presence of a predator, but he's behaving as if he's more vulnerable than that, further down the food chain - and, honestly, that duality is _killing_ Stiles. He's struck very suddenly by a _need_ to know everything about this man.

"So, I promised to salvage this moment between us, right?" he asks through a breathy, awkward chuckle. "You ready to get your socks knocked off?"

The man's jaw stops pressing against his cheek, but the glance he gives Stiles is still buried under furrowed brows and careful to reveal nothing. He looks _cautious_.

"I can read between the lines," Stiles assures him lightly, sending him a purposefully-ridiculous wink. "You wanna know my name. The curiosity is killing you inside, I can tell. Alright, I'll give. It's Stiles. Yup. Stiles Stilinski."

The skin around the man's hazel eyes - _god_ , they're so pretty - twitches.

"No, it's not my real name," Stiles concedes, waving a dismissive hand while the other clutches the edge of the bar to twist his stool back and forth. "There's a whole story. My real name's a pain in the ass. Much like myself. I guess I gotta live up to it, y'know?"

The man's fist uncurls and rests loosely on the surface of the bar. Stiles has to force himself _not_ to fist-pump the air excitedly.

"I am currently sitting on a grand total of twenty-three years - impressive, I know. I'm an avid collector. Uh, my favourite colour is blue because, y'know, it's pretty. I have a Jeep named Roscoe and my heart lies and dies with her, so don't think you're ever gonna manage to come before her. The band of idiots up the back of the bar are my closest friends, and my bro Scotty is my absolute ride or die. He's the best. But that's all platonic, don't worry. Uh, what else? Oh, I wanna go into law enforcement, like my pops. I can keep a closer eye on him that way, you know? And it means he won't be able to shout at me anymore for investigating crime, so, that's a bonus."

The man's eyebrows have flattened out on his forehead again.

"I come with a range of defects but they're all manageable and it wouldn't be the true Stiles Stilinski Experience without them, so, no, I'm not gonna apologise. Uh, I'm a great cook. I love nerdy shit. I'm smart AF when I can gather enough concentration. I'm a momma hen, I'm not ashamed to admit it - wanna make sure my nearest and dearest are happy and healthy and that's admirable, if you ask me. Which, I can tell, you _totally_ are. I'm not a great runner. I mean, I can run if my life depends on it, but, uh, don't make me do it for _leisure_ 'cause that's just rude, man. I can see it on your face that you _want_ to, but I promise it'll end horrifically for everyone involved."

Stiles is leaning on the bar at this point, one elbow propped on the wood so his fist can support his cheek, while his other hand gestures back and forth as he runs through his Top Trumps. The man finishes wiping down the section of bar he was working on - he definitely went over the same area more than once, but Stiles isn't going to comment, because it looked like it was helping relax him - and he turns to fiddle with something at the other side, his back facing the rest of the bar.

But his face is reflected in the glass in front of him, and Stiles can _see_ the tiny quirk in the man's lips, pulling them subtly into his cheek. It isn't until hazel eyes meet his in the reflection that he realises he's smiling goofily, a triumphant warmth burning in his chest, and he freezes again.

The man blinks calmly, despite having had his own miniscule smile caught, and turns to face Stiles again. He leans back against the counter behind him, stretching his arms out on either side to lean against the wood - and coincidentally displaying his _freaking_ biceps again, _holy shit_ \- and the tiny smile is maintained. But he does quirk another eyebrow.

Stiles clears his throat and lifts his cheek away from his hand, bringing his arms close to fold them on top of the bar. "Can I please know your name?" he asks, wincing slightly.

The man's lips pull further into his cheek - and it's _not_ a smile. It's a _smirk_ , the asshole. "Derek," he answers. "Derek Hale."

Stiles digs his nails into his sides, out of Derek's view - because _Derek_. Oh my god. The man has a name. The artwork has a title. He doesn't want to objectify Derek, he doesn't want to be that guy, but art is about layers, isn't it? And _Derek_ has layers. And Stiles wants to see them _all_.

He exhales, sharp and shaky. "Derek," he repeats, and he hears his voice crack slightly. "Wow, that's completely underwhelming and not at all having any kind of effect on me."

Derek's right eyebrow twitches downwards, but he's still smirking.

"Yes, _obviously_ I'm lying. You don't need to call me out on it, dude, _god_."

Derek huffs out an amused breath, tucking his chin into his chest as if to hide the small grin that showcases a row of white teeth. He crosses an ankle over the other and shifts his weight to get more comfortable against the bar, bringing his arms up to cross over his chest.

"I told you I'd salvage this," Stiles beams.

Derek looks up at him again, still grinning softly, but his eyebrows pinch a little.

"Yeah, I know I need to maintain this standard now, but I'm pretty sure I'm capable. I was just awkward before. But-"

"No," Derek interrupts, head cocking a fraction. "I meant I can't believe how persistent you are."

The misinterpretation of Derek's expression takes Stiles aback - probably more than it should, considering they've only known each other for ten minutes. "Shit, I'm gettin' rusty already?" he mutters to himself.

Derek's face reads confusion, and his words confirm it. "What do you mean?"

Stiles' hands reemerge from his sides to gesture emphatically between them. "Well, I mean," he stumbles, awkward again. "I think I was doing a pretty good job translating the language of your eyebrows, y'know? And then I- I misread that. Just now. Just there."

Derek blinks at him, lips parted enough to allow a glimpse at his teeth, mouth curled almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, you were doing a good job."

Stiles gapes at him for a moment, his heart stuttering in his chest. "Uh. Well. Yeah. That's, uh- that's what I thought. Y'know. Yeah."

Derek smirks, eyes narrowing. "So, why _are_ you being so persistent?"

Stiles' eyebrows lift. "In my attempt to woo you?" he clarifies.

Derek's lips press together flatly, ducking his head to avoid Stiles' gaze.

And, _honestly_ , as if Stiles didn't feel in-over-his-head _enough_ , now Derek's got to act all _shy_? Give him a break.

"Well, I had been sitting with my good ol' buddies when you first caught my eye - y'know, like a striking painting in an art gallery? No, wait. I don't wanna commit to that analogy. I've never been to an art gallery in my life," he mutters, running his hands over his face abruptly to jump-start his brain again. "You know when you're watching the TV and then this trailer for a movie comes on and you suddenly have, like, _zero_ interest in the forkful of food that's half-way to your mouth, or the totally witty and hilarious reply you were working on to send your best bud?"

Derek lifts his face enough to give Stiles a barely-quirked eyebrow.

"Okay, this analogy's gonna work best for me, so I'm gonna need you to jump onboard anyway, alright? You caught my eye like a riveting trailer - which, by the way, just so we're clear, is still art. I worked it all out in my head earlier, you maybe had to be there; but, I promise, it's still art. So, you're a trailer for this movie, and it looks great, and it's totally stolen my attention. And, y'know, sure - a lot of the appreciation and admiration is done on the surface level, right? 'Cos, at first, that's all you see. And it sells, obviously. I mean, you're not gonna draw people in to see the other levels if the surface level doesn't do its job, right? So, the surface level catches my attention. And I'm like ' _Woah. That's some trailer. That's some_ art.' Right?"

Derek's eyes narrow and his brows pinch.

"Stay with me," Stiles promises. "So, I notice the art. And I'm like, ' _Okay, wow. I gotta check this art out._ ' But, I mean, I'm clueless, right? I'm hopeless. I got no idea what I'm doing. 'Cos at the end of the day, you're _not_ a movie trailer. But your surface level has caught my attention _like_ you're a movie trailer. So, I pause for some encouragement from my buddies - they're at the back of the bar, I told you about- they don't matter. Never mind. Not the point. I get some encouragement, and I come over, right? I go to _admire_ the art. And it's still surface level and that's fine, 'cos it's all shit I can handle. I can totally wing this. I can _act_ like I know how to admire art. That's fine. But then you _look at me_ and I realise _very_ quickly that I absolutely _do not know_ what I'm doing. Because you're _not_ a movie trailer, _right_? You're a person. But this is where it gets tricky - because _you're still art_."

Stiles pauses, eyebrows raised questioningly, making sure Derek's still on the same page - if he ever was.

Derek blinks at him, his expression flat.

"See, this is exactly why I opened with ' _Can you objectify art_?' Because I panicked. I don't wanna objectify anyone. I'm not a perv, alright? I'm just a guy appreciating art. But labelling you as art- is that objectifying you? Shit. Oh, man. I'm talking myself in circles, here. I'm losing it. I'm totally losing it."

"So, you keep talking to me even though I'm not replying?" Derek sighs, shifting his ankles again so he's standing with both feet planted firmly on the ground.

And Stiles realises he's _helping_ him. "Right! Yes! Thank you!" he gushes, his hand shooting out to hang gratefully between them, his palm upturned. "Exactly. You don't _talk_. But I keep going, because your eyebrows are, like, _doing things_ , and I'm pretty sure I can figure out what they mean. And, y'know, I keep saying things, and you keep giving me secret eyebrow communications, but you don't flat-out glare at me or give me the bird or punch me, so I figure I'm good to continue, right? And it's like when you see a really good movie trailer and then you go online and you read some article about what the movie's about or how it's come to be, and you watch interviews and see behind the scenes photos and videos, and suddenly there's a whole new _depth_ to the art, right? It's not just the surface level anymore. There's more layers to it. And if you wanna appreciate the art, you gotta appreciate all the _layers_. And, sure, sometimes the other layers end up falling a little flat and the movie wasn't about what you thought it was about, or you realise it's made by some shitty Hollywood abuser or something and you're like, ' _Alright, never mind. It's all just for show_.'"

Derek's lips are parted slightly again, his frown almost non-existent in its softness. And his hazel eyes are looking _so green_ right now that Stiles nearly loses his train of thought.

"But, y'know," Stiles stumbles. "I'm talking to you and you're giving me these silent communications, and I feel like I've just stumbled across some _gem_ of a movie trailer, with a kickass backstory and some _awesome_ behind the scenes shit, and everyone onboard is, like, totally talented and humble, and there's just _no way_ I'm not gonna chase after and consume every single piece of content I can find on every layer, right? I've become an art-lover in the space of about fifteen minutes but I've found that _one_ piece that, like, _resonates_ with you on the deepest possible level - like, that piece of art that people think back to for _years_ and tell all their friends and family about and buy prints of and sit and admire over and over and _over_ again, no matter how many times they've seen it. Because it _means_ something to them and they love what they can see in it and what they take away from it. I can just- like, I mean- I can _see_ all these layers hidden under that _incredible_ surface, and I wanna _feel_ them all and _understand_ them all. But not just, like, superficially, y'know? I wanna make a _connection_ with the art." Stiles swallows nervously. He takes a breath and gestures at Derek. "With you."

Derek's expression is unreadable for the first time.

"Does that make _any_ sense? Or should I just abandon ship and flee while I have the chance?"

Derek's eyebrows twist upwards, and his chest pulses when he huffs out a sharp breath through his nose. The corners of his mouth curve upwards the _tiniest_ amount, but it's enough for Stiles to catch it and have his heart stutter in response. And then Derek slowly uncrosses his arms and takes the two steps that bring him to the other side of the wood Stiles is leaning upon. Derek's hands press flat against the bar, supporting his torso as he tilts over it slightly, and Stiles feels the weight of his hazel gaze right down to his _toes_. His presence is fringing on the edge of Stiles' personal space, and it's _intoxicating_. It's as if Stiles is physically connected to the space between them, the way it's tense and taut with the heat of their proximity and it's setting his _every_ nerve alight with anticipation.

"It makes sense," Derek says.

The quiet rumble of his voice sends a thrill from the back of Stiles' neck down his spine. The colour of his eyes is so much harder to define up this close - even hazel doesn't quite cut it - and the sharp darkness of his features are enough to make Stiles' mouth go dry. And then Derek's words actually register, and Stiles blinks stupidly up at him.

"I sound like an idiot, though, right?" he mutters. "It's a corny line, saying you're a work of art."

Derek smirks, his bearded cheek dimpling slightly. "Oh, yeah. Definitely," he agrees.

Stiles' lips purse, skin bunching around his nose in an angry grimace.

"But I get it. Seeing someone as a work of art - I get it."

Stiles' expression slackens, his eyebrows twisting hopelessly.

Derek's smirk softens significantly. "I do," he assures. Stiles' stomach swoops at the realisation that Derek is reading _his_ expressions the way he was reading Derek's. "I'm used to the covers of books," Derek continues, his voice soft. "I've had covers that caught my eye before, only to underwhelm me when I turned them over to read the blurb. I've had a lot like that, actually." His gaze drops for a moment, his expression growing sombre. "And some books that ended up being nothing like I thought they were, half-way through reading them. They made it hard to pick other books up again, after that." He clears his throat and throws a cautionary glance around them, and then he folds his arms on top of the bar and lowers down to Stiles' eye-level, crowding in even closer. "Then, tonight, there was a new book cover that I noticed. It was.. _vibrant_. Bright and busy and _alive_. And, for the first time in a while, I really wanted to pick it up and read the blurb. But it's hard for me to trust covers and blurbs now. So, I thought that was that. I'd seen a nice cover but I wasn't gonna investigate, and I'd never come across it again."

Stiles' heart is thumping rapidly in his chest - so erratic and _loud_ , he doesn't know how Derek can't hear it. It's pulsing at his neck and in his ears and in his wrists, and there's a searing _heat_ it's carrying through all of his veins, across his entire body. He's only _mildly_ concerned that he's going to spontaneously combust before Derek finishes his version of the analogy.

"So, it caught me off-guard a little bit when the book launched itself at me and started spewing words from a random page," Derek shrugs, smiling wryly. "Part of me wanted to toss it back where it came from, but the other part - the stronger part - was too curious. I'd never just opened a book half-way through, but that's what this book was doing. And it somehow felt like it _got_ me." He pauses, holding Stiles' gaze captive. "It connected with me," he says.

Stiles forgets how to breathe.

"If movie trailers can be art, then so can books. So, when I say that you're a book that I wanna read from start to finish - or whatever chaotic order you want me to take - and that I wanna read it until the pages are dog-eared and the spine is wrinkled, and it's never anywhere I can't easily reach it to read through it again.." he pauses and _smirks_ , like he knows how much the anticipation is utterly _wrecking_ Stiles, "..what I mean is that I think you're a work of art, too."

" _Oh my god_ ," Stiles chokes out.

Derek grins. "What? Are you _really_ trying to tell me you don't know you're beautiful?"

"Isn't that a One Direction song?" Stiles breathes distractedly, because Derek is _so close_. Their arms are almost touching, and the space between them might as well be _crackling_ with the energy Stiles can feel nipping at his skin.

"Who?"

"Would it be completely bananas if I kissed you right now?" Stiles winces, having to _consciously_ fight against the aching _pull_ in his chest trying to throw him across the bar.

"I mean, it'd be wildly unprofessional," Derek muses, his expression faux-sombre. But he's absolutely, _positively_ , _without-a-freaking-doubt_ , getting closer. "I could get fired, if my boss saw me."

Their noses are almost brushing.

"Who's your boss?" Stiles mumbles, eyes dropping to Derek's mouth.

Derek's lips spread wide, and Stiles finds his own instinctively copying the movement.

"Me," Derek answers.

And he closes the remaining distance between them.

Stiles is pretty sure - as an _avid_ and _experienced_ art-lover - that there's a rule against _not touching_ the artwork; but Derek's hand cups his jaw and his mind goes _completely_ blank on everything but _Derek_. He might have forgotten his own name, but he really couldn't care less.

Derek is on a _whole other_ level, and Stiles figures they can make their own rules for how to properly admire their new favourite artworks.


End file.
